


What the silence reveals

by Cinder7storm4



Series: How can I trust you? [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Family Feels, Fear, Gen, His nicknames are Mica and Mischief, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nightmares, Sheriff Stilinski is a Good Parent, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Mieczysław, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 14:27:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15145127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinder7storm4/pseuds/Cinder7storm4
Summary: John confronts Stiles about a breakdown that he had after Lydia's party.





	What the silence reveals

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Teen Wolf. 
> 
> *I've been in a real spiral lately so writing angst appears to be the only productive thing I can do. I'm sorry that I hurt Stiles!

John came home late from his night shift, moving quietly around the house, putting away his gun, and changing out of his uniform. He paused at the top of the stairs on his way back to the kitchen to pour himself a nightcap or two, when he felt the ache in his chest that seemed his constant companion double up. He wanted, no, he needed to check on Stiles so he turned back and went to tap on his son’s door. 

He’d heard through the grapevine at the station that the Martin girl was throwing a party and he wanted to make sure Stiles had gone. He wanted to know that his son was doing normal teenage things. He wanted to believe that maybe Stiles was okay, that he wasn’t lying about well, everything. 

But when he went to tap on the door, he paused before his knuckles could touch wood. A quiet, sharp sound came from the other side of the door. It sounded again. It sounded like a sob and everything John had wanted to ask about flew out of his head as he slowly opened the door. 

“Stiles?” 

The sound came again, but it was muffled. John inched into the dark room, trying to locate his son. When he got the desk lamp to turn on he almost wished he hadn’t. Stiles was curled up on the floor on the other side of his bed, a fist in his mouth to muffle his sobs, the other hand wrapped around a picture frame. 

“Stiles?” John asked again, no response. He walked over to his son slowly, then crouched down in front of him. He reached out, hand cupping Stiles’ chin to tilt his son’s face up and he almost stumbled back. Stiles’ whiskey coloured eyes were full of unshed tears and the whimper of fear he had let out when John had tipped his head had sounded so afraid. John hadn’t heard Stiles make a sound like that since that day in the hospital. 

“Stiles, what happened?” John’s voice dropped lower, keeping his tone soft.

Stiles opened his mouth but instead of an explanation he croaked out two words, “I’m sorry.”

The moment he spoke it seemed that he’d opened up a dam and soon a litany of apologies tumbled from Stiles’ lips and no amount of soothing from John could get him to calm down. He watched, helpless, as his son worked himself into a panic attack. These at least John had dealt with before, sparingly but he had dealt with them. He tucked Stiles against him and rubbed his son’s back, helping Stiles listen to his breathing, to help his son count breaths, to bring him back from hyperventilation. 

Even once his breathing evened out Stiles seemed to be unfocused and unaware of the situation. He pushed at his father’s arms, he struggled to extricate himself from John’s embrace but the Sheriff would be damned if he let that happen. Instead he pulled Stiles closer, “Shh, Stiles, it’s me. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, daddy,” snuffled Stiles even as he stopped struggling, “ ‘m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Stiles,” murmured John.

Stiles almost appeared to laugh, but the sound was harsh and hysterical, “I should tell him,” Stiles’ voice cracked again, “Need to tell him I’m sorry.” He resumed his struggle with John then but the Sheriff kept his grip tight and, he hoped, comforting. 

“Who? Who do you need to apologize to Stiles?”

“Dad, I need to tell my daddy, I didn’t mean to ruin it,” Stiles’ breathing was ratcheting up again and John was still confused. 

“Stiles, I’m right here. I’m right here with you,” but Stiles shook his head, denying John’s words even as he spoke them.

“No, no, no, wouldn’t be here, not worth it.” 

John tried to rein in Stiles again, fighting against the tears in his own eyes then Stiles broke free and scrambled for the picture frame he’d been holding earlier. It was cracked, and broken but Stiles pulled it to his chest and curled around it nonetheless, “I’m sorry daddy. I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.” 

John surged forward again, fighting with Stiles to pry the broken frame from his son and then upon succeeding he scooped Stiles up in his arms. His gaze flicked to the photo in the frame for a moment and saw one from early on in his marriage to Claudia. Tears pricked at his eyes again, but he had priorities, Stiles first. 

He brought the murmuring, twisting, crying teen into his bathroom where the boy suddenly quieted. That scared John even more, “Sti… Mica?” he whispered, eyes taking in the scratches from the broken glass that littered his son’s arms and hands. At the sound of his childhood nickname Stiles let out a whimper but he didn’t apologize. John counted it as a win. He flinched internally at what counted as a win in his books at the moment. 

He wanted to kill whoever had made his Mischief feel like this; he wanted to throw them in a cell and watch them rot away. But Stiles was his priority, so as his son whimpered, tears falling steadily from his eyes again John carefully cleaned his cuts and wrapped them. Eventually, Stiles went quieter again, his whimpers only happening every so often, but his eyes, they were still unfocused. John went to pick Stiles up again when another sob ripped through Stiles’ body, 

“Mica?” 

John hated this. He hated feeling helpless. He hated knowing that his Mischief was hurting and all he wanted to do was wrapped his son up in a soft blanket and cuddle him until he fell asleep. But first, he needed answers. He carried Stiles over to his bed and sat his son down, “Mica, what happened?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, dad…” slipped out from Stiles’ lips again.

John wanted to shush him, to tell him that there was no reason for him to feel sorry, but he needed answers so he took the bait, “What are you sorry for Stiles?”

“I… ruined it.”

“Ruined what, Stiles?” John kept Stiles curled up against his chest, wiping at the tears his son seemed unaware of shedding. 

“Ruined it, ruined dad’s life by being a hyperactive little bastard, sorry, I’m so sorry,” Stiles spoke as if he was unaware that John was even in the room, and that disassociation worried John more than his son’s earlier behaviour if that was even possible. 

“Who, who told you that?” John couldn’t help the tightening of his grip on Stiles or the steel that entered his voice. He wanted names so that he knew how many graves to dig three towns over. 

“Mom, then dad, but doesn’t matter, I don’t matter,” muttered Stiles, eyelids starting to droop with emotional exhaustion, “Just leave me here.”

“Stiles,” John shook him slightly, “What do you mean?”

“Don’t wanna worry my dad, don’t want him to hate me more,” Stiles was drifting now and with a final utterance his body seemed to demand sleep, “He blames me. I killed her.”

The limp form of his son stayed wrapped up in his father’s arms all night, but John was unable to sleep. All he could do was run through Stiles’ words in his head over and over. He wanted to cry, he wanted to punch something, break something, but he sat, keeping his son tight to his chest and tried to figure out how to redeem himself. 

\--  
The next morning  
\--  
Stiles was slow to wake, which was odd. He rarely slept through a night and even if he did he would snap to attention the moment his body started to wake up. But, he was comfortable, warm even. He was usually cold, always so cold, which was why he actually wore layers and his hoodie as often as possible. 

The thing that made him panic was that he was being held. No one held Stiles. No one really even touched Stiles. Sure, sometimes Scott gave him a bro hug, or his dad pulled him away from something by the back of the neck but no one really touched him. If he was lucky and his dad wasn’t drinking, distracted, or angry he might get a hug and those, those filled his heart up for days. He clung to those moments because they made him feel cared about. Hell, he’d gone out for lacrosse with the idea that maybe, just maybe then he’d be able to satisfy his touch starvation with on the field brutality. Stupid. Stupid. 

John had been watching Stiles sleep and noticed his son slowly come back to consciousness, but what he should have expected was for Stiles to start talking. Again, he seemed unaware that he was saying things out loud, but John caught enough of his ranting to feel like he’d received another punch to the gut. He’d never consciously set out to keep Stiles at arm’s length, but he obviously had. 

Before Stiles could work himself into a panic attack again, John gently shook his son’s shoulder and softly called his name. Stiles whipped around and away from him so fast John thought he’d get whiplash. Stiles seemed to take in that he was in his dad’s room and he scrubbed his hands over his face, talking again, seemingly trying to puzzle out what had happened, “Oh god, dad, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, it must have been that punch at Lydia’s, I never meant to bother you. God and you were working late,” John had no doubt that Stiles would work himself up into another fever pitch easily so he did what he thought made the most sense. He launched himself off the bed and took Stiles’ hands in a gentle hold, keeping them from scratching at his son’s face or arms, “Stiles, Stiles… Mica!”

That made Stiles pause, his dad hadn’t called him Mica in years, not since that episode with his mom. It was enough to stop him cold. John took a step closer to him, and everything in Stiles told him to step back but he couldn’t. Instead he ducked his head, catching sight of the gauze on his arms for the first time. He was confused. Stiles wracked his brain. He hadn’t wanted to die, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t, not while his dad was alive. It wouldn’t be fair to him. 

John inhaled sharply as he heard Stiles admit to contemplating suicide, “Mica,” he said again using his grip on Stiles’ hands to pull his son forward into a tight hug. Stiles cursed his mouth, it really did run on autopilot when he was exhausted. He tried to pull away from his dad, maybe crack a joke, and then figure out what the hell was going on, but his dad wouldn’t let him pull too far away. John reached out to tilt Stiles’ face up to his for the second time in under twelve hours and his son wasn’t fast enough to duck out of his grip.

“Dad, what…?” Stiles saw his dad’s eyes for the first time that morning and where he’d expected frustration or exasperation he only saw something that might just be anger. John wasn’t angry at Stiles, he was angry at himself but his son didn’t know that so Stiles tried to sort things out again, “Dad, I swear I had no idea the punch was spiked okay, I know you’ve given me a hundred lectures about the dangers of underage drinking, and if I did something, which I obviously did, I‘ll make it up to you. I promise. I promise, dad.”

“No, Stiles,” John’s voice was gruff but clear, “You can’t make this better.” John realized how his words sounded the moment he said them and opened his mouth to rephrase them when Stiles’ shoulders dropped and he pulled his chin away from his dad’s grip finally. “Oh, okay… still, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, dad” Stiles bit his lip to stop talking, his mouth had obviously gotten him into trouble last night and now his dad was telling him how majorly he’d screwed up. 

“Oh, Stiles,” John whispered, voice not at all angry like Stiles had expected, “I didn’t mean, I meant you didn’t do anything, kiddo. You’ve got nothing to make up for.”

“Yeah, right,” Stiles muttered, “That’s why you’re still here instead of at the station, that’s why you’re still holding me hostage.”

John released him immediately, “I’m not going in today.” He’d called into the station to tell his right-hand deputy to cover his shift, he had leave stocked up and he wasn’t going to leave the house until he and Stiles had spoken properly about whatever had happened the night before. 

Stiles’ body language appeared confused and John wondered how long it had been since he’d taken time off to spend with his son. Obviously too long. 

“Why not? Are you not feeling well? Do we need to go see Melissa?” Stiles started up again, agitated. 

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” John said, “it’s you Stiles.”

Stiles’ head snapped up, panic flickering over his eyes then vanishing into their depths, “Me? I’m fi…”

“You’re not fine. You definitely weren’t fine last night. And you certainly weren’t drunk, Stiles,” John started to work into his own rant but then paused for a breath, “I think we should eat breakfast and then talk.”

He gestured for Stiles to go downstairs and surprisingly, he did, but he was quiet. Too quiet. Stiles barely touched the cereal John poured into a bowl for him. He was too twitchy and jittery. He had no idea what was going on and he was scared. What the hell had he said to his dad last night to make him take time off of work?

When it became clear that Stiles wasn’t going to eat anything, John cleared the dishes and sat back down at the table across from his son, the one person he thought he knew everything about, but obviously he was wrong. 

“Stiles, what do you remember about last night?” John asked, his voice open and casual. 

Stiles wouldn’t look at his dad though, he remembered the beginning of the party. He remembered the punch and then the hallucination, or rather the memory of his father coming at him with a whiskey bottle. 

“I went to Lydia’s birthday party with Scott and we had something to drink, pretty sure she spiked the punch and then after about an hour or two I walked home.”

“That’s it?” John pressed lightly. 

There were flashes of something else in Stiles’ memory, tears, broken glass, a picture, him struggling against someone – he tensed trying to remember if something bad had happened to him – but all that kept coming to the front of his mind was the sound of his father yelling at him by the pool. Blaming him for killing his mother and for killing him too. Stiles nodded, jerkily. 

“I don’t believe you, Stiles,” John replied softly. 

Stiles just stifled a dry sob, of course his dad didn’t believe him, even if this time his distrust was completely justified, “Why don’t you just tell me what the hell I did then?!” Stiles responded, wanting to be angry but really his voice just came out fearful. 

“So, you don’t remember having a panic attack last night? You don’t remember how you got hurt?” John pressed again. 

Stiles shut his eyes in an attempt to keep himself from crying. Shit, if he’d had a panic attack in front of his dad about the vision or whatever it was at Lydia’s he was screwed. He tried, in vain, to keep his voice steady when he answered, “No, I don’t.”

John got up from the table then and for one moment Stiles thought maybe their talk was over, but then he heard his dad pause upstairs briefly and then return to the kitchen. He had a picture frame in his hands, a broken one. Stiles knew that frame. Damn, he couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d tried. 

“Tell me why this photo put you in a disassociated state,” John placed it carefully in front of Stiles who could see where the glass had cracked. Feelings from last night unfolded in his head. His mom and dad looked so damn happy and he’d ruined that. 

Against his wishes Stiles’ hands started to shake. John put a hand over Stile’s right hand but the movement was unexpected and Stiles jerked back in his chair. Luckily, based on recent events John had anticipated Stiles’ reaction. His other hand came up to rest on Stiles’ shoulder and kept him in his seat. “Mica?” he whispered, “Last night, you said…”

“Whatever I said dad, I was lying, you tell me all the time that you can’t trust me so…” Stiles started to babble.

“Mica, stop, please.”

But Stiles didn’t want to stop, he wanted to talk until his father yelled, until his father left him. John wouldn’t though, he was done with leaving Stiles to deal with his issues on his own. He pulled Stiles up into another hug, “You weren’t lying” John whispered to Stiles’ forehead as he pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead. 

He tugged Stiles gently into the living room thinking that maybe it would be more comfortable for both of them. He steered Stiles to the couch and then sat down next to him. Stiles’ eyes were shut tight, trying in vain to wake up, he wanted this to be a dream. He couldn’t, he couldn’t have this conversation with his dad. “Mica, last night you said some things that scared me,” John started, watching Stiles’ face for signs that he was going to dive into a panic attack again.

Never in a million years had Stiles thought he’d scare his father, make him angry sure, but scare him. God, he really was a horrible son. He ruined everything. It took Stiles’ mind a moment to catch up to the fact that once again he’d run his mouth, in front of his dad. He didn’t know how to fix this. 

“This isn’t something you can fix Mica, this isn’t something you broke,” murmured John, voice pained, but yeah, “You were saying stuff like that. God, Mica, why would you ever think that?”

Stiles shrugged, mind still racing, trying to figure out how to get him out of this situation. When it became clear that silence was going to be Stiles’ armour in this conversation John started to speak. 

“I came home late last night and went to check on you. You were on the ground, holding that picture, and crying,” he couldn’t keep the pain out of his voice even if he’d tried, “You wouldn’t respond to me at first but then, you started to apologize, over and over,” John swallowed trying to keep his own tears at bay as the whimpers Stiles had made the night before sounded in his head again. “I don’t think you knew it was me, but you kept talking, saying you needed to tell me something, something important.” Stiles stayed quiet, head downcast, and he was unnaturally still. 

“You kept talking about ruining something, Mica…” John could hardly bring himself to think the words that Stiles had uttered the night before, about his father hating him and about ruining his life, ‘You got very specific, Mica. I need to know who did this to you; I asked you, and you told me… but, well, I need to hear it from you.”

“Da..” Stiles cut himself off, unsure of whether he still had the privilege of calling his father dad, “I… please don’t ask me to talk about it,” whispered Stiles, so quietly John could’ve easily missed it. 

“Stiles, you told me that your mother told you that you…”

“…killed her,” whispered Stiles, in defeat, as he seemed to crumple before John’s very eyes. He pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his face in knees, refusing to look at his father. 

“Stiles, Mica, kiddo,” none of the names got Stiles’ attention, “It wasn’t your fault. She was sick. Kiddo, she was sick.”

“But you don’t believe that, do you?” murmured Stiles, head still hidden from view.

“Stiles…”

“If I hadn’t made her so tired she would have been healthier longer, if she hadn’t had me maybe it never would have manifested itself!” Stiles’ voice rose higher as his whole body seemed to shake then he lifted his head, eyes staring straight at his father, “I know you blame me! I know, you told me! Why do you want to go over all of this again?” Stiles unfolded himself from the couch jerkily, “I know, I know all of this already and I’m sorry my issues disturbed you…” John couldn’t listen to another word. He wanted to bring Stiles in for another hug, but that had only seemed to agitate his son earlier. Instead of a denial, one word came from the Sheriff’s mouth, “When?”

He caught Stiles off guard, “When what?” he kept his arms wrapped tight around his torso, suddenly cold again. 

“When did I tell you that?”

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. A short silence stretched until he got the nerve to respond, “After, after the funeral.”

John thought he might have his first panic attack. John looked at Stiles, his eyes wide, hurt, and pained, but he had no words yet. 

“Dad, I, it wasn’t your fault,” Stiles whispered, inching back to the couch but positioning himself further back from John than earlier, “You were grieving, you were drunk, and I didn’t want to stop talking about her so I get it.”

A sound half way between a sob and a growl emanated from John’s throat, “And you were eight years old, Mica! It wasn’t your fault,” but he could tell his son didn’t believe him, “Mica, please, please listen to me. I do not blame you, anything I said then was bullshit.” 

“Fine,” Stiles whispered. 

“No, no Mica, it isn’t fine, kiddo…”

“Dad, I don’t want to talk about this, I don’t blame you, I swear…”

“Mica, please, come here. Look at me,” John forced his voice to level out again. Stiles moved forward slowly.

“Your mother loved you. At the end, she wasn’t her, whatever she told you was wrong. Whatever I said to you then was wrong. Mica…” he wanted so badly to hug his son, but he refrained. He knew that there was more to this story, but Stiles kept his eyes downcast and head ducked. Then something clicked in John’s head, “Mica, was that why you didn’t tell me about what she was doing, that she was hurting you?”

Stiles stayed silent, but John had spent enough time about abuse victims to guess at what was going on in his son’s head. 

“Mica,” he put a hand out grip Stiles’ shoulder, “You never deserve abuse. Do you hear me?”

Stiles shook his head, sadly swaying it from side to side, “Sure. Are we done here now?” his voice oddly flat.

“No, no we’re not, Mica, please,” John pleaded with him to just look up, to see his father’s eyes, to believe him, “There’s more to this that you aren’t telling me, Mischief, I know there is, please just talk to me.”

“What about you?” Stiles whispered.

“What about me?” John replied, quieter.

“If I didn’t kill mom, aren’t I killing you?” before Stiles even finished talking John had launched himself forward to tug Stiles close, “No, no, no, Mischief. I don’t know how I’d live without you, kiddo. No, no, no.” He pulled Stiles closer, he wanted his son to hug him back, “If I didn’t have you, Mica, I don’t know how I would have managed these past eight years. I swear on your mom’s wedding ring, kiddo. I swear to you; you’re the most important person in my world.” 

Stiles was shaking in his dad’s arms, but slowly he hugged back, just slightly, but it brought tears to John’s eyes, “Stiles, this morning, you said you’d thought about, about dying before and I need you to know that I would rather burn the Sheriff’s station to the ground and raze the town than ever have you feeling like that’s an option. Please, please, talk to me, Mica,” John pulled away slightly so that he and Stiles could look eye to eye, “I love you. I trust you. I believe in you. I need you here, with me.”

He pulled Stiles back towards him and they clung to each other while they both cried for everything that had happened. 

“I love you, daddy,” Stiles murmured and his dad smiled, tears streaming down his face, “I love you too, Mischief.”


End file.
